


She is Veiled in Vapour

by ThornQueen



Series: Well Dressed [3]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Bath time with wine, Candles and smooth jazz make everything better, DInner and a show, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornQueen/pseuds/ThornQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cats don't normally like water, but Chat Noir is more than willing to make an exception for the beautiful woman he finds relaxing alone in the bathtub when he gets home from patrol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She is Veiled in Vapour

A sultry rain is falling on Paris. 

Summer’s heat lingers in the streets with the warm mist, shadows growing long as the hazy evening settled into the long hours of the night. Light cast by glowing café windows catches in the damp shadows, beckoning warm welcome. Warm rain makes the scents of the city rise, the scent of old stone and freshly ground coffee beans, the succulent scent of flowers hanging in their baskets from the awnings of shops, and the bite of car exhaust. 

Chat Noir pauses on a rooftop, tipping his face into the drizzle to revel in the ghost-light touch of wetness against his cheeks. Dew collects in his hair, one slow rivulet following the curve of a tendon in his neck before pooling where flesh meets leather. Rain collects in dew drops across his suit; whether it is magic or plan old waterproofing, he is safe and dry inside the leathery armour. 

Around him, the city lays languid in the rain. The damp weather is not enough to dampen the spirits of Parisians who continue to sip wine with their dinners under colourful awnings, couples taking the opportunity to step closer under the shade of an umbrella. They take comfort that they are safe under the watchful eyes of Paris’s two patron protectors. They cheer on the occasion they see a woman’s silhouette leaping across the face of the moon, and smile knowingly when she is followed by a man who bounds through the darkness between the stars. 

In the years since Ladybug and Chat Noir first began their patrols, crime in the city – even the non-magical kind – has gone down considerably. 

So much so that Chat Noir does not feel too guilty that he is wrapping up patrol early this evening. 

There are evenings when he can stay out long after midnight, basking in the magic that gives him the ability to leap and weave across rooftops, finding no hardship in chasing after the eye-catching backside of a certain spotted heroine. Occasionally, he takes a thrill in being the one being chased, always looking forward to the moment he is caught. 

Tonight, the streets are quiet, and Chat Noir has no Ladybug to chase. She’s been bogged down by her civilian life, scrambling for the past week to finish an order of high-end clothing for one of her more elite customers. This evening is the deadline, and at this very moment he can imagine Marinette in her shop commanding the finishing touches on every item. 

The very least Chat Noir can do is shed his armour for an apron and have dinner ready for her when she finally comes home. 

Without a thought, he steps from the roof and drops down onto the railings of a sturdy balcony below. A silver wind chime sways absently, tinkling in the misty gloom. The door to the balcony is propped open, and from the darkened room beyond Adrien catches the faint refrain of smooth jazz playing. Curious, he slips through the bedroom, glad for the enhanced senses that his current form gives him; a single breath tells him this is no intruder. He follows the lush scent of woman and wine through the apartment to the threshold of the bathroom, where the flickering glow of a dozen candles spills out across the floor. 

His breath stills with the sight that greets him. 

His wife is most definitely home early, and she has found a way to relax without him. 

In the golden candlelight, caught in whorls of steam, the fine lines of their bathroom are transformed into a dreamlike blur. Shining white porcelain transforms into buttery ivory limned in gold, and the brass of their exposed fixtures glows copper warm. Under the glow of a dozen scattered candles, the shadows sway in time to the sensual murmur of music, becoming the soundtrack to a dream Chat Noir most definitely does not want to wake up from. 

Steam from the full bath writhes in the air, casting a veil over Marinette’s ephemeral form. Tendrils of vapour wreathe her face, caressing her bare shoulders, rising from the clear water to kiss the upper swells of her breasts. Her hair is pulled up atop her head, wisps of midnight falling to whisper against her cheeks, floating teasingly by her nape. Long, trim calves rise from the water, cast with breath-taking perfection under the loving touch of candlelight. Her red-painted toes dance absently to the tune that filters haunting through the warm air, her soles balanced on the curved lip of the sizeable, claw-footed tub that dominates the room. 

The vision she creates is so fine that Chat Noir fears that if he disturbs the mist he will break the magic, and the fine goddess visiting him now will disappear forever. 

Marinette’s eyes unerringly trace from the magazine perched between her fingers to the fine form of her husband haunting the open doorway. The light in her eyes is languid as she meets his gaze, surprise flaring to see his mask. Surprise morphs to devilment and delight, not the least put out to find him clad in his superhero guise. She meets his entranced stare for long seconds, and then her eyes very deliberately wander from his masked face. Down his chest, his belly, following the defined lines of the muscle of his thighs; she is not shy in her admiration, nor does she bother to hide what the sight of him clad in leather does to her. 

Her every glance is a lick of heat that he feels as finely as if she were tracing his bare flesh with her hands. In the run of a day, he can have the hands of a hundred strangers touching him, dressing and posing him as if he were only a mannequin. The hungry eyes of the public devour his face and body but leave him cold. A single glance from Marinette makes him feel like _a man_ rather than a mannequin; he is flesh and blood in her eyes, someone to be desired for more than just his face or body. 

Although she does enjoy his body. A lot. Nearly as much as he enjoys hers. 

Whatever chill might have lingered in Chat Noir from the rain is chased away the moment Marinette’s gaze slides back to his. Banked desire sparks in the sapphire flame hidden behind half-mast lids. Heat blooms in his blood as he watches one graceful arm shift from the water, her naked skin flushed pink as she reaches for the thin stem of a wineglass set amongst the candles on the low windowsill by her shoulder, lips parted for a sip of ruby red wine. 

She continues to watch him over the lip of the glass, letting the silence linger heatedly between them. 

Her lips, now shining crimson with the sweet stain of wine, curve in welcome. _“Chat Noir, to what do I owe the pleasure?”_ She knows the thoughts running through his mind; he makes no secret of them in his eyes. Awe, heat, hunger. His suit does very little to hide any of his secrets, least of all the ones beginning to stir low in his belly. Not even the ancient powers of Chat Noir are enough to fight an aphrodisiac as powerful as the sight of his Lady, naked, sipping wine and watching him like she wants to devour him. 

She has the audacity to quirk her brow at him, her smile curving ever warmer. 

He takes up her silent invitation with alacrity, daring to cross the threshold into the dream. Vapour whirls around his body, embracing him, welcoming him, and he is gratified that the magic is not broken. Indeed, as he crosses to the tub and is able to see down over the curved ledge to the lithe body laid out at her leisure in the steaming water, Chat Noir is sure the magic is only getting better. He takes a seat on the bathmat, propping his shoulder against the porcelain side, loving the naked landscape he is free to enjoy. From this angle, his eyes can roam from the tips of her toes to every curl in her damp, black hair. 

_“My Lady, I believe this is entirely my pleasure,”_ he murmurs sincerely, holding out his hand, seizing hers the moment she offers it. His lips grace the inside of her wrist, lingering there, savouring her taste and scent. He loves that as Chat Noir he can find a thousand more things to love about her that no mere mortal man would ever be able to discover, like the fact that she is Ladybug, and she is Marinette, and she is _his_. 

Heat that has nothing to do with her bath flushes her cheeks, her eyes sparking with teasing delight. In the jewel-like depths of blue, turned liquid in the haze, he sees _interest_ flare to life. 

_“I didn’t think you would be home until later,”_ he admits, releasing her wrist. _“I was hoping to have dinner ready for you.”_

 _“This is better.”_ She offers her wineglass, which he accepts and drains in one mouthful, savouring the rich flavours that burst across his tongue. As Mariette sits back, she flashes a tantalizing hint of breast, the flash of a rosy nipple just above the glittering water, and Chat Noir can sudden think of many things in this world that taste better than wine. 

But, to be polite, he toasts her with the glass and says, _“This is excellent.”_

Her eyes dance, her smile drawing him in deeper. _“It was a gift from my client, the one who came for her collection today.”_ She glides through the water, rivulets sluicing down her body in loving trails. Her magazine is set away on the window sill, exchanged for the dark green bottle tucked in amongst the candles. _“Her grandfather owns a vineyard in Bordeaux.”_

He takes the bottle, admiring the name and year. Growing up surrounded by the finer things in life, he has developed a sense for that which is fine and expensive. The wine is no doubt worth a small fortune. It has the fine flavour of a wine that collectors would bid ruthlessly for. A sign of yet another well-satisfied customer who will no doubt be coming back for more of Marinette’s talents. He flashes her a flirting grin. _“You are becoming quite the exclusive name in the fashion world, my love.”_

She glances away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. _“The Agreste name holds a lot of power.”_

 _“It’s not my name that draws them,”_ he teases. He is more than happy to denounce the name that truly doesn’t suit him. The Agreste name _especially_ does not suit him dressed as he is. What’s in a name except the bad taste it leaves in his mouth? To wash the flavour away, he drinks directly from the bottle. A private, momentary rebellion that he revels in – bad manners, good wine, and a beautiful woman… 

The gasp he elicits from Marinette is music to his ears, the wine disappearing in an instant from his clawed grasp. With enhanced reflexes, he catches her wrist before she can pull away. Rising to his knees, he meets her gaze, sharing a wine-rich kiss, lingering to caress her warm lips with his. _“It’s your talent, Princess. All of Paris would have to be blind if they couldn’t see what I see in you.”_

Marinette gifts him with a belle laugh that loses itself in the hazy air between them, her arms sliding around his shoulders. Her damp breasts press against his chest, her warm belly curving into his abdomen. Candlelight dances on her wet flesh, wrapping her in a misty golden veil that makes her seem too good to be true. _“If all of Paris saw me as you see me…”_

 _“They would see the most beautiful woman in the world.”_ He kisses the corner of her mouth, her cheek, pressing his lips to the shell of her ear. He hasn’t had nearly enough wine to blame the depth of his passion for her on the drink alone. His passion for her is always there, although wine does help inspire it to new heights. 

He is proud of how accomplished she is as a woman. He adores her strength, and her heart. He loves the taste of her warm, wet skin against his hot mouth. Her body tightens under his hands in response to his teeth nipping at her neck. Against her flesh, he purrs, _“They would see their precious Ladybug, perfect in every way.”_ His claws trace down from the upper curve of her spine to the lower swells of her ass. Hot water envelopes his hands, and even hotter flesh fills his palms. 

Her damp breath fans against his hair. One hand grasps his nape, the other clutches desperately to the neck of the wine bottle pressed against his thigh. Her heart flutters, each beat dancing against the flat of Chat Noir’s tongue. He revels in the sensations he lavishes on her, as much pleasure for him as it is for her. 

_“They would see my Marinette, in all her glory.”_ He pauses, pulling away despite the hand that tightens around his nape. The mewl that falls from her rosy lips goes straight to his groin, the leather of his suit now uncomfortably tight. The hazy look in her eyes firing liquid heat in his blood. He purposefully runs his gaze from her face down her naked body, lingering on her high, pert breasts before falling to the thatch of midnight curls at the apex of her thighs. Deliberately, he firms his grip on her backside, bringing her flush against his chest, their noses mere breaths apart. _“On second thought, I’d rather keep you in all your glory all to myself.”_

She rubs the tip of her nose to his. _“Good. I’d rather keep you all to myself, too.”_

He turns his head just enough to fit their mouths together, letting their tongues tangle leisurely. She is rich and wine-sweet, playing on his senses as finely as the steam that fills the room. The presence of her here with him feels as if it is fleeting, as if at any moment he may grasp for her love too tightly and she would become effervescent and fade away. 

He can tell himself a thousand times that Marinette will never fade away, but the fear still lingers. 

_“C-chat,”_ she groans, very much hot-blooded woman rather than a dream of mist. 

_"Marinette,"_ he drawls lovingly, trailing the backs of his fingers down the curve of her ass. Gooseflesh breaks out under his mindful ministrations, an approving murmur hanging wordless in the air. A teasing grin appears out of nowhere, his eyes flashing roguishly. _"Do you want me to leave you to your bath?"_ he purrs lowly, cupping handfuls of hot bath water to trickle down the lower curve of her spine, sluicing over her bottom. Her eyes blink wide, stunned for a second, and then narrow when she hears the teasing lilt in his voice. _"It's been a long week for you. You deserve some time to yourself-."_

 _"Or,"_ she cuts in, lifting her chin, _"I deserve to celebrate after the week I've had. Care to join me?"_

_"Always,"_ he breathes, with no need to coax another kiss out of her. 

Marinette's mouth is on his before he can finish the word. Her lips are curved in a laughing grin, letting herself be caught up in the moment. She is naked in her bathroom pressed up against the fully clothed, fully armoured, body of her incredibly handsome husband, and she has just sold a collection today to a very wealthy woman with many friends. She's already had more wine than she cares to admit, and the taste of Chat's mouth on hers goes straight to her head. Her hands are busy, the fingers of one spearing his hair to trap his lips for a deeper kiss, the fingers of the other are grasping the firm muscle of his backside. With breath-taking strength, she jerks him forward, their bodies sealing together except for the porcelain tub between them. 

There is no need to have anything between them, Chat decides. Between the two choices of him crawling in or her coming out, he chooses the latter. He swoops in and wraps both arms around her waist, hoisting her from the water with shocking ease. In seconds, her dripping body is laid out on a bed made of ivory towels he has dragged down from their rack on the wall. Her flushed pink skin glows warmly, contrasting brightly against the pitch blackness of his leather as he lowers himself over her. 

Marinette reaches out to wrap her arms around his neck, her eyes hungry as they look up at him. 

He flashes her an answering smirk, unbelievably aroused just from the sight of his claws hovering over her skin. He gets a secret thrill every time he lingers as Chat Noir and she is Marinette. Magic and power course through his blood, giving him strength, tuning his senses to the ebb and flow of bad luck in the city. He breathes magic, can hear her heartbeat, see her pulse fluttering in her neck, and taste the sweet flavour of her arousal in the thick air. As he is, he has power over her body. 

She has power over his soul. 

One smooth, naked thigh rises to press between his legs. He gasps, his head filling with more of her honeyed arousal. Throbbing heat robs him of his breath, so painfully hard that he fears if he looks into her eyes now while she writhes against him, he will commit a sin against his suit and against poor Plagg, who is already buzzing dangerously in the back of Adrien’s mind. 

He skims her breast, hooking one claw delicately around the curve of her pebbled nipple. _“I was going to treat you to a relaxing dinner,”_ he murmurs, flicking her nipple thoughtfully as she arches her back, biting her lip around a delighted grin. _“Since you’ve ruined that idea, I might as well eat out…”_

_“Oh!”_ she cries out, somehow laughing and groaning at his terrible pun, while thoroughly wet and aroused against his gently probing fingers. 

He purrs in her ear, laying a line of kisses down her neck as the knuckle of his forefinger circles her clit. He doesn’t dare use his claws in such a delicate place. The music plays on as he mouths his way down her body, taking care to pay homage to all parts of her. His lips and tongue worship her breasts, leaving behind the fervent, spotted evidence of his devotion on her skin. His hands sweep her waist, shaping her hips, keeping her still for his lips to love her navel, whispering against her hipbones, before following the lee of her hips down to her sex. 

Her trim black curls are already glistening. The scent of her here, musky and sweet, taunts him. Drives him mad. He is so aroused that it’s now an ache that goes deeper than just the flesh. He has reached the point at which his body cannot possibly get any harder. That fine point of arousal where the threshold between pleasure and pain become blurred. Parting her plump lips, she is flushed pink and dripping wet, so utterly divine that his mouth waters. 

His lips against her sex inspires a breathless cry from Marinette, music all on its own. Her fingers dive into his hair, her thighs falling wide for him. He laps at her, listening to each hitch in her breath, loving the writhing clench of her legs around his shoulders. 

She is petting him, whispering sweet nothings into the air. Her soft panting echoes in the steam, filling the small room. Each impassioned sound skates down his nerves, setting him ablaze. The taste of her on his tongue is decadent, demanding he take more; she is far finer than the expensive wine he had supped from her other lips. 

His shoulders fit themselves between her thighs, reminding him of the power she holds in her lithe body as she squeezes around him. The touch of his lips to her clit is nearly enough to buck him from her body. He stays, glad again for the strength he gets from being Chat Noir. Two superheroes with enhanced strength, lost in the throes of passion, can be a powerful, wild ride. 

The mere thought of how combustible they are, no matter the combination of forms they come together in, is enough to make him groan. He reaches down between his legs to adjust himself, though his efforts do little good. The touch of his own palm is nearly his undoing. His suit is waterproof, so there is no damp evidence of how far gone he is staining the front of the leather, but with each tightening flex of the muscles of his abdomen, he feels the head of his cock rubbing against his lower belly, and he feels wet pre-cum sticking to his skin. Friction from his suit, coupled with the sweet sounds his Lady is making, are spiralling him into critical territory. 

Marinette is nearly as lost as he, looking like a wanton as she writhes in her nest of towels on the floor. She is wicked and uninhibited, set free by his loving attentions. The muscles of her belly coil tight, her chest heaving. She feels a building charge of magic in the air, but it does nothing to cool her ardour. Instead, she feels the magic like sparklers down her nerves and it tightens her whole body until she is quivering on the edge. 

_“Chat,”_ she pants, tugging on one of his decorative black ears. _“Look at me. Please, just- ah! Look at me!”_ Her hand releases his ear, sliding up her body to cup her breast. Her fingers thrum her nipple, pinching, rolling, her brows furrowing as delight bombards her senses. 

Refusing to stop, Chat looks up the length of her body with his tongue still wrapped around her clit. He pets her sex with reverent hands, watching the play of pleasure on her face. Building her up higher, notching her desire tighter, letting her linger in that beautiful place teetering on the precipice. Pink cheeks and red, panting lips. Glittering eyes, her dark hair a brilliant corona around her face. He is watching her eyes just as Plagg sneers _to hell with it_ in his head and rips the transformation away. He is watching her the moment the magic of the transformation leaves him and touches her. Her eyes go wide and bright, suddenly electrified. A smile parts her lips as she arches back, losing herself in the tidal wave that that rises up inside her. 

Adrien listens to her plaintive cries, loving each time his name falls from her lips. He watches her writhe, drawing out her pleasure with his lips dancing on her clit, her fluttering body riding his now-clawless fingers. Her orgasm is real, and beautiful, and reminds him that she belongs with him. The magic that makes her Ladybug may make her otherworldly, and her spirit is as free as the whorls of vapour that cocoon them in this moment, but her body is real, and her heart is his, and he trusts her with all of his soul to stay with him. 

Eventually, he backs away at her quiet bidding, following her beckoning hands up her body until Marinette can wrap her arms around him, her thighs bracketing his hips. Her body is shivering in the aftermath, every nerve ending wrecked and vibrating. The sensitized flesh between her legs brushes along the tight ridge of Adrien’s arousal now ruthlessly constrained within the confines of a pair of jeans. The way she presses herself into him, riding the length of his erection while biting her lip, looking him in the eye, nearly makes him go blind. 

She is not cruel, though. Marinette would never leave him to suffer for long. Steam still rising from her flesh, wearing it on her glowing skin like a veil of magic, she curls her hands in his hair and drags his body decadently against hers. Her thighs cradle his hips, her breasts pressed into his chest. Her lips at his ear make him shiver. 

_“If that was dinner, I can’t wait for dessert.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment. I would love to know your thoughts on this work and whether or not I should continue with this series.


End file.
